This picture is a throwback to San Francisco Pride circa 2000/2001. Look at me. Don’t I look happy, dancing topless on the street with random strangers?
It turned out to be the first and only time I did the San Fran Pride party, way back when the drugs felt good and the party was a real party. I did so much cocaine and got into a shit load of trouble that weekend that I seriously have not been back to San Fran Pride since.
I’m not much of a coke fan, I always hated the taste of the drip and how that shit wore out after a few hours. Cocaine is all we had on us that weekend, so we kept making trips to the nearest port-a-potty for one key bump after another. I can still taste the stink and the heat inside those damn portable shitters.
I remember dancing my ass off on the street. I remember dancing some more at the clubs. I kinda/sorta remember rolling around with some guy in the back of a moving pickup truck. I remember ending up in that guy’s cramped apartment. We tried to do what grown-ups do, but I was too wasted. I remember it went down in his bathroom, because his boyfriend was passed out in the other room. We curled up in this empty old-fashioned bathtub that stood on four legs. I don’t remember the rest. If I don’t remember, it didn’t happen.
The party continued the following day which turned into night. I remember not being allowed into the End Up, because one of my friends got busted with drugs in his pocket. They were frisking people at the entrance and making you use your eyedroppers to make sure you weren’t sneaking in G and other contraband. I had my shit jammed into a tube of Cherry Chapstick.
“What’s that?!” My friend shrieked when the bouncer held up a baggy in his face.
“It’s your fucking drugs.” Super Cop informed him. “Get the fuck out of here!” He yelled at us. “All of you, before I call the cops!”
I remember going to this place called Blow Buddies afterwards–which is some semi-sex club where you’re only allowed to do it orally, hence the name Blow Buddies. Get it? We were about to pay our way inside when this old man came out from behind a dark curtain and said, “Stop. One of you is wearing deodorant; I can smell it.”
Blow Buddies liked their men smelly. We noticed a sign that read, “No Cologne or Deodorant Allowed.” He lined us up and leaned into us to do a smell test–I believe he was the owner of the place. The friend that got busted with drugs drugs, not a half-hour earlier, was the first one to be denied entrance–he’s a huge cologne queen. One by one, my friends failed the smell test. To my surprise, I was the only one waved inside. I immediately told myself that I was being allowed in because I was the cutest guy in the lineup, but now that I think about it, that dirty old man basically said that I stunk. I swear I didn’t.
I know it’s supposed to be bros before blows, but I stayed behind, while my friends found a different place to party. Blow Buddies was boring, the porn sucked–literally–it was a nonstop compilation of slurping and sucking on a continuous loop. Oh yeah, and the men were gross; they smelled like ass.
I don’t remember the rest of the night, so it never happened.
I do remember all of us being super sick on our way back to LA after San Francisco Pride weekend. The friend that got busted with drugs was all shades of yellows and greens when we waited for our flight. I felt nauseous. My nostrils were all dried up and fried, my head hurt like hell and thinking about that disgusting drip made me want to hork. Lucky for me, I hadn’t eaten in days, so my body had nothing in terms of vomit.
I was like, “I ain’t gonna do cocaine no mo’. I ain’t gonna do it no mo’.”
Anyway, this is was a throwback to the kerazy dayz. Check out my pic. Don’t I look like a good time guy? Don’t I look like a lot of fun? Don’t you wish you could be me?